by Sam Mariano
The Boy on the Bridge
By Sam Mariano
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Boy on the Bridge © 2020-2021 by Sam Mariano
Cover Photography: The Cover Lab
Model: Sergio Carvajal
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for not being a pirate!
This book is dedicated to my readers.
Because of you, I get to write my own twisted fairy tales for a living.
♡
“I always loved you, and if one loves any one, one loves the whole person, just as they are and not as one would like them to be.”
-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Part One
Chapter One
Riley
14-years-old
As I amble along the path toward the footbridge, I adjust the heavy backpack threatening to leave a permanent indent on my shoulder.
My backpack broke earlier this school year, but my mom stitched the strap back on. It has held up just fine for a while, but today Mom had to work so she couldn’t pick me up from school. That means I have to walk home.
Apparently, all the extra jostling popped the threads, because about a mile ago the darn thing gave out. Now I’m trying to lug this heavy sack of books on just one shoulder and that shoulder isn’t thrilled about it.
Movement ahead startles me and I gasp, clutching the backpack strap instinctively.
Someone is sitting on the footbridge with their feet dangling over the edge, palms braced on the aged wood. They’re looking down into the water, not paying me any mind, so my grip eases up and my racing heart begins to slow down.
Normally, there’s no one else on this path, and I feel uneasy that someone is now. Like they’ve found a place that was supposed to be secret and shown up uninvited.
I guess since I stopped walking—or maybe it was my gasp—I catch the attention of the stranger on the bridge. Only when he turns his head to look at me, I see it’s no stranger at all.
Hunter Maxwell is the intruder sitting on my favorite bridge.
We go to school together, but we’ve never spoken. He’s kind of a popular jerk who comes to school just to hang out with his friends, and I’m kind of a quiet bookworm who actually shows up to learn. I can’t imagine we would have anything to say to one another.
He must agree, because as soon as he recognizes me, he looks away—back down at the rippling water beneath the footbridge.
Something unpleasant turns over in my tummy. It feels like rejection, but that’s silly. I don’t care if Hunter Maxwell dismisses me. I didn’t want to talk to him, anyway.
Lifting my chin and bracing the strap on my shoulder, I set about ignoring him right back. I march across the distance between us, then march right past him.
Before I make it off the bridge and onto the dirt path toward home, his low tone interrupts the mutually held silence. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me today.”
I stop abruptly, frowning as I look back at him. “Excuse me?”
His sigh is impatient, but he repeats himself anyway. “The school thinks I’m out of town. No one normally comes this way.” Now he turns his head to look at me. “You know this is private property, right? Mine. You shouldn’t trespass.”
I’m so surprised, I only really hear the first part. As soon as he turns his head, I get a better look at the side of his face I didn’t see the first time he looked at me.
The skin around his left eye is agitated and swollen. It kinda looks like he got hit in the face.
The distance between us on the social hierarchy falls away and concern for him swells up inside me. I rush forward, dropping my backpack on the footbridge as I sink to my knees and lean in to get a better look. “Oh my gosh, what happened to your eye?”
“Nothing,” he says defensively, swatting my hand away.
My eyebrows rise. “This is definitely not nothing.” My long dark hair falls in my face, so I shove it back behind my ear. “Did somebody hit you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Mind your own business,” he mutters.
“It does matter,” I argue. “It looks terrible. Did you put anything on it? If you ice it, it will help with the swelling.”
“I’m fine,” he informs me. On impulse—I think—he pushes me hard in the chest to get me away from him.
I lose my balance and fall backward on my butt. It’s hardly a far fall so it doesn’t hurt, but I don’t appreciate being shoved to begin with.
“Fine,” I snap, pushing up to my feet and retrieving my bag. “I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Good, then I won’t give it to you,” I tell him, hoisting my broken backpack on my shoulder and stomping away from him.
I hear a loud sigh, then the telltale patter of sneakers against wood. “Wait,” he says, his voice less hostile.
“No,” I toss back without stopping. “Don’t follow me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, all rushed as he catches up to me. “I didn’t mean to shove you. You were just making me mad.”
“There are better ways of expressing anger than shoving people,” I inform him, a bit primly. “Try words sometime.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up and he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks for the solid life advice.”
I look over at him with a vague glower still on my face, but I can feel my genuine annoyance melting away now that he’s not being a jerk. “Anytime.”
For a couple minutes, we don’t speak. I certainly didn’t invite him, but he continues to walk next to me along the path through the woods. My stupid backpack threatens to fall again. I try hoisting it, but that snags his attention.
Without a word, he reaches over and takes the backpack from me.
“Hey,” I object, but a second later I sag with the relief of not having the heavy thing on my back.
Hunter frowns when he realizes the strap is broken, but unperturbed, he slings it over his shoulder.
A moment later, I murmur, “Thank you.”
He nods. “This thing weighs a ton. What do you have in here?”
“Rocks.”
He cracks a smile. “Sure feels like it.”
I crack a smile right back. “It’s all my textbooks. Surely yours is just as heavy.”
“Nah. I don’t bring many books home.”
I frown. “How do you do your homework without them?”
“I wing it. I usually read the assigned chapter in class while the teacher is talking, then I only have to answer the questions at home. Only book I have to bring home every day is my math book, and that one’s not heavy.”
“How do you remember the questions if you don’t bring your books? Some of them are really long.”
He digs into his pocket and pulls out a smart phone. “You just take pictures of the assigned questions. Saves you having to haul around a big bag of books all the time.”
“Oh, I see. That’s a good idea, but I don’t have a cell phone,” I inform him.
His eyes widen like I just admitted to being an alien. “What? Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”
“I know,” I agree, rolling my eyes. “My mom insists I don’t need one yet.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s considered child abuse. Blink twice if you need help.”
I shake my head, smiling faintly. “It’s fine. I think she just says that because she can’t afford another line and she doesn’t want to admit it. She had to change jobs recently and I think she makes less at the new one because she went into major budgeting mode. Taking coupons out of that little box at the library, painstaking attention to our grocery list, no more cable. I’m sure she’ll get me a phone when she can afford it.”
“That sucks.”
I shrug. “I don’t watch TV much, anyway. It does suck, though, because right before she switched jobs I started reading this trilogy called Hunger Games. I got books one and two, but I figured I would pick up book three after I finished those, and now we don’t really have the book budget. It really sucks, because book two ended on a massive cliffhanger. I’m on the waitlist for the third book at the library, but I still have a month to go and waiting is the worst. I just want to know what happens and if she and Gale live happily ever after.”
Hunter smirks at me. “You’re such a dork.”
He says it without malice, but I wouldn’t care much either way. I am a bit of a dork; I’m not ashamed.
“I’m heavily invested,” I inform him. “Katniss is awesome, I love her. You should read the books, then you’d see. I’ll loan you my copy of book one if you want to. It’s not a romance or anything, it’s this awesome dystopian story. You’d probably like it.”
“Based on all you know about me?” he asks, amused.
“Based on the fact that it’s awesome, and I assume you like awesome things.”
“I do like awesome things,” he allows.
“There. See? You’d like it.”
“I don’t really read books I don’t have to read for school.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t have time.”
“You probably just haven’t found the right book to pique your interest. Maybe Hunger Games is it. I’m committed to this cause now. You have to read it.”
“You just want to get me hooked so I’ll buy the third book and you can borrow it from me. I see through this smoke screen, Bishop.”
I laugh. “That’s not true. I never even thought of that—although now that you’ve brought it up… that would be a nice silver lining.”
Once we reach the end of the trail, Hunter’s steps slow to match mine. I look over at him, then gesture to the sidewalk to our right. “I’m that way. I should probably take my backpack now.”
Hunter shrugs. “I’ll carry it the rest of the way.”
“You sure? You really don’t have to walk me all the way home.” I try to make it seem like I just don’t want to be a burden, but really I’m not sure about letting a boy in the house when I’m home alone. It has never come up before, but I’m pretty sure my mom would freak out.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he assures me.
I’m still hesitant, but I feel too awkward explaining why, so I keep my mouth shut and take off toward my house. It’s only a few houses past the walking path which is why I take it, but the closer we get, the more antsy I get.
We sort of have a ‘no boys in the house’ rule, it’s just that it normally only applies to my mom. I haven’t gone on anything like a date yet. Mom does, but she doesn’t bring “boys” around unless she’s super serious about them. It has only happened with two guys in my whole life, so generally “no boys allowed” is gospel in our home.
I linger on the front porch, fidgeting with my fingers, then I clear my throat and turn back to Hunter. “My key’s in my bag, so I need it back now.”
He swings it off his shoulder and hands it back to me. I meet his gaze for a moment, feeling strangely naked as his brown eyes bore into me, then I abruptly drop it to dig in my backpack for my house key.
“Um, thank you for bringing it all this way,” I tell him.
“No problem.”
He still isn’t budging or taking what I feel are very obvious vibes that I don’t want to invite him in. It feels rude telling him he can’t come inside after he carried my heavy, broken backpack all this way, so I shove down my reluctance, unlock the door, and push it open.
Hunter follows me inside, looking around our smallish home. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, just as much space as we need. It’s not big by any means, but it suits two girls living alone.
I don’t know Hunter Maxwell, but I do know his mom is a former model who has been divorced twice—and the town gossips say each divorce added a lot to the fortune she had already amassed on her own.
“Your house is probably bigger than mine,” I say, needing to break the silence.
Hunter nods, still looking around. “Little bit.”
I nod, easing my backpack to the ground. “Do you have any younger brothers or sisters?”
Now he shakes his head. “Nope. Just me. My mom and husband number three talked about having a baby, but I think they’re headed for a divorce instead.”
“Aw, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
With an indifferent shrug, he says, “I’m not. I hate that guy.”
“Oh. Well, then I guess I’m not sorry.” Looking around for something to make me feel less awkward, I catch sight of the kitchen. “Come with me.”
Hunter follows me slowly, but now that I have a mission, I’m more comfortable. I open the freezer and take out a bag of frozen corn for Hunter’s eye. I point to a wooden chair by the table, gesturing for him to sit. Hunter flips it around backward, then straddles the chair instead of sitting on it like a normal person.
I crack a smile that he even has to sit like a cool kid. I bring the bag of corn over and hand it to him so he can press it against his eye.
“Is your mom married?” he asks, apparently continuing the conversation I sought to escape.
“Uh, no. She’s never been married.”
“Not even to your dad?”
I shake my head. “She was 17 when she got pregnant with me, and I guess my dad wasn’t exactly marriage material. Not father material either, I guess.”
“You never met him?”
“A few times, but I was a baby. I remember him being there once when I was two, but that’s the only memory I have of him. Me and my mom moved away a year later and I haven’t seen him since.”
“I never see my dad either. He was engaged to someone else when my mom got pregnant, and I guess they still got married, so… you know, he has a real family and they’re not eager to embrace me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That’s not really fair. It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Hunter shrugs. “Life’s not fair. I don’t worry too much about it. I figure if he doesn’t even want to see me, I can’t be missing much.”
I nod my head in firm agreement. “I think that’s a good way to look at it.”
“As long as my life coach approves,” he jokes.
We share a smile—the warm, genuine, unguarded kind, and it makes my heart happy.
This time, he appears to be the one made uncomfortable; he drops my gaze and clears his throat. “Thanks for this, by the way,” he says, tapping the bag of corn he’s holding against his eye.
“No problem,” I assure him, dropping onto the chair nearest his. “How’d that happen?”
“How’d your backpack break?” he fires back.
I quirk an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an answer. That wasn’t even a smooth segue.”
“I think it was pretty smooth.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Little bit,” he insists.
“Not even at all.”
Hunter smiles, another unguarded one. “You gonna answer my question or not?”
Folding my arms across my chest, I tell him, “After you answer mine.”
Finally relenting, he says simply, “I got punched in the face. Your turn.”
My face falls. “Oh. Shoot. Well, my answer isn’t even interesting; it’s just a cheap backpack and the threads gave out when I was putting it on my shoulder to leave school one
day. Who punched you in the face?”
“Someone who doesn’t like me,” he answers dryly.
“Someone from school?”
Lifting his chin in a casual bid for my attention, he says, “Who’d you say that author was? The one who wrote those books you liked?”
“Suzanne Collins,” I answer off-handedly, my concern growing each time he dodges the question. “Who hit you, Hunter?”
His gaze locks with mine for a moment, but then he drops it and pulls the makeshift ice pack off his face instead of answering me. “How’s it look?”
“Like you got punched in the face,” I state. “Who hit you?”
Slanting a slightly more annoyed look at me, he says, “You asked that already. New question.”
“Not until you answer this one. I don’t like how you’re avoiding it.”
“I don’t like pushy girls,” he counters.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care. Was it Daryl from school? I know he doesn’t like you.”
“Please,” he says dismissively. “Daryl thinks he’s hot shit, but he’s not. He doesn’t have the balls to punch me in the face.”
“Why doesn’t he like you, anyway?”
“Because he’s stupid,” Hunter answers.
My lips curve up faintly, but my smile is tempered by the concern I’m still nursing over his eye. “So, who punched you?”
“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll overreact,” he informs me.
“How will I overreact?”
“You’ll make a big deal out of it, and it’s not. Shit happens. It happened, now it’s over, it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t seem like you think anything matters,” I tell him. Knowing he won’t share if I don’t, though, I add, “I promise not to overreact.”
That grabs his attention. “You promise not to say anything, period?”
I’m a little less comfortable with that promise, but considering the run-around he has already given me, it seems the only way I’ll get an answer. I’m starting to worry it was someone he lives with, maybe his mom or stepdad. If he leaves without telling me, I’ll worry about it incessantly.